Damaged
by Mark Daniel
Summary: After an eleven year partnership with detective Alex Eames, Robert Goren is set adrift on his own path. The future is always uncertain. But what went wrong? What happened to the amazing Major Case partnership between Goren and Eames? Is it possible that Goren is too damaged to change his fate?
1. Chapter 1

The main characters in this story belong to Dick Wolf.

This story is rated M for language and for other potentially graphic material. Better safe than sorry, right? In addition, this story does not follow the storylines (is not part of a series) of any prior post.

* * *

Robert O. Goren hastily set his mail and keys down on the mottled formica kitchen counter top. After extracting a drinking glass from the drying rack, he brought the back of his hand under the faucet handle and raised it with one direct sweeping motion. In the time it took to fill the glass, his eyes glanced at the folded newspaper gripped tightly in his opposite hand.

"Wait," he murmured to himself.

It was important to stay composed. Of course he wanted to read the article immediately, but to practice self-control, he had denied himself any such gratification during the length of the four blocks he'd walked in order to purchase the thin weekday edition. All the way home, he'd played the paper against his left thigh.

_Thwap. Thwap. Thwap._

The tri-folded publication protested softly with each determined stride.

Only twenty minutes prior, his world was relatively uncomplicated. Now, one phone call later, and his peace of mind had been irrevocably disturbed.

_Thwap. Thwap. Thwap._ _THWAP!_

Powered by frustration, the newspaper snapped a little too hard against his thigh as he recalled the events that projected him on a direct path to the news kiosk in the first place.

_Fuck. _

It was idiotic to believe that he had successfully put the past behind him.

* * *

Indeed, Goren had spent the past year in general obscurity, safely tucked away in his rent-controlled Brooklyn hideout. It had been over a year since he'd left his position with the New York Police Department. And despite the many negative predictions of his fellow colleagues, he'd even managed to find some semblance of order. For after a few unsuccessful ventures, he eventually found work as a private investigator. During the past five months, the gig helped pay the bills, gave him a puzzle to work on, and for better or worse, also gave him the opportunity to be his own boss - picking jobs that piqued his interest or paid well.

And today had started out like any other day. But at half past nine, his landline's ring tone cut through the familiar solitude.

The line rang twice before the caller hung up.

No loss. He rarely picked up the line. And why bother? Goren happily employed an antiquated answering machine to screen all of his calls.

Several seconds passed and the phone started to ring again.

After the fourth ring, the familiar whirl and click of the answering machine kicked on, and Goren's standard message sounded, "I'm not available, leave a message."

There was a beep, followed by a pause.

Goren looked up from his crossword puzzle, equally curious and irritated.

"Uhhh, Goren?"

The male caller cleared his throat, "Yeah, um, saw an article in today's paper. Your partner, Eames . . . "

At the pronouncement of her name, Goren caught his breath. It was Logan. Mike Logan, a former colleague at Major Case, who'd left the force years before retirement on his own volition. Goren recognized the voice immediately.

"I, um, don't have any more internal connections, you see," Logan paused, "I guess I was surprised to learn that Eames is on loan from Major Case."

There was another awkward pause.

"Everything okay?" Logan tentatively queried, "Um, anyway, yeah, that's it. Hope all is well."

Another pause, a pause, where he swore he could hear Logan grinning, "well, if you got out of there without being asked to leave, it can't be a bad thing right? All-righty then, call if you need too. Bye."

And with that, Goren's crossword was left uncharacteristically unfinished at the base of his armchair.

* * *

Back at his modest apartment, a glass of water and newspaper in hand, Goren carefully toed the discarded crossword out of his path.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't care. The mantra-like vow played endlessly in his head. And with every passing second he unsuccessfully tried to dissolve any desire out of his heart - an irrational desire that was based on some fantastical outcome that it still might be possible to put everything back together at square one: to a time when things were simple, pure, and without the complexities that had presented themselves over the past ten years.

But alas, he'd always known this day was coming. Knew that he'd have to face reading about her in the paper when she caught a big one. And this time it was without _him_.

Before sitting down, Goren took a swig of water, but because his mind was so obsessively focused on the contents of the paper, he choked. His eyes watered and he sputtered like an old car that refused to warm up on a cold January morning.

Startled, he steadied himself, clearing his throat as he sat down in his leather armchair.

His heart raced at a pace that outmatched his breath. Suddenly, he felt the need to wipe the extra moisture that had gathered at his hairline, on the base of his neck, and that was now collecting in the seams of his undershirt.

After clumsily setting the glass down on the side-table, Goren ceremoniously unfolded the newsprint on his lap. He closed his eyes, one last moment of sensory deprivation as he settled into the familiar depressions of the well-worn leather upholstery.

His chair.

A chair he'd spent an innumerable amount of hours in: lost in a book or dozing long after the alcohol had dried at the corners of his mouth.

With the paper set squarely on his lap, Goren slowly working the creases out with palm of his hand. The familiar smell of freshly printed newsprint distracted him briefly before his index finger and thumb gently worked the edges of the first page.

His eyes scanned the contents of the pages. He gasped. He wasn't prepared to see _her_ photo.

The greyscale image was small, less than the dimensions of a standard business card.

He squinted, tilted his head to the right, as if he could somehow extract more details at that particular angle.

_Fuck. She was lovely. _

_Fuck. She still looked good. _

Lieutenant Alexandra Eames. That's what was captioned in bold Times New Roman directly under the photo. She was framed behind a podium of sorts, the familiar pattern of a flag and the seal of the NYPD were slightly out of focus but still visibly present in the negative space that surrounded her.

He forced his eyes away from her visage, but was quickly drawn back in as he followed the steep line of her cheekbone. Her eyes were hard to read – nothing but dark slits; she was focusing hard, as Eames often did. He'd seen that expression a thousand times over. Indeed, only a thousand fucking times.

His eyes bounced back and forth between her image and the headline: Terrorist Prostitution Ring Scandal provides no leads for NYPD.

With great effort, Goren diverted his eyes from the photo of Eames to the body of the surrounding article.

It read:

_New York Police Department's Homeland Security Unit was unable to generate any viable leads during a high profile terrorism investigation, the department acknowledged Friday._

_The NYPD is the largest police department in the nation and Mayor Michael Bloomberg has held up its counterterrorism tactics as a model for the rest of the country. "Our Homeland Security Unit is central to keeping the city safe." _

_Lieutenant Eames also confirmed that the NYPD Special Victims Unit, was also key to the investigation, but conceded the NYPD had not generated any leads._

_"With the help of (Special Victims Unit) Captain Cragen, I've identified a connection, and I'm using that information to determine that this would be the type of operation that a terrorist group would benefit from." Eames explained._

Goren's breath quickened as he digested the article several times through. Of course there were the big takeaways: Lieutenant Alex Eames on loan from the prestigious Major Case, Eames listed as with the joint task force with Homeland Security working in conjunction with NYPD Special Victims Unit, a terrorism case that was purportedly linked with a prostitution ring where the police initially infiltrated said prostitution rings, planted informants, and closely monitored the women involved, that there were no major leads - but all the while there were many agencies were pointing fingers at one another - i.e., fucking politics as usual.

And again, he stared at the photo of Eames with an intensity that he usually reserved for a suspect.

_Fuck. _

_Eames._

He sucked in another deep breath.

_Looks like she doesn't need me any more. _

Why couldn't he see it clear as day? It was time to pull the plug. Time to go far away. Time to close up shop and move on . . .

* * *

A.N. - Nice to be back. Although I don't know how often I will be able to post. As always, I will try my best and am always open to suggestion. Comments are always appreciated. Sadly, this one may be a darker take, and a little less hopeful than my previous work. Cheers! - MDH


	2. Chapter 2

_Looks like she doesn't need me any more._

Why couldn't he see it clear as day? It was time to pull the plug. Time to go far away. Time to close up shop and move on . . .

* * *

"She's not cheating on you," Goren repeated, scratching the stubble on his right jaw.

Dr. Haber looked utterly bemused by Goren's declaration.

"She's bored," Goren offered, "I've been tailing her for weeks. After she leaves one nightclub, she hits another. When she's finally had her fill, she takes a cab back to her sister's."

"Well," Dr. Haber sighed, "it doesn't account for all of my wife's behavior, but now you've logged in several weeks worth of observation. I just thought I'd have something more substantive by now."

Goren rubbed the small patch of skin between his nose and upper lip, impatiently shifting his weight from his right to his left leg. He'd learned early in life that one should never volunteer any information that was not directly asked for in the first place.

Haber was clearly fishing. But Goren remained silent; eyes fixed to the ground, counting an assortment of pebbles that he'd compiled near the toe of his right boot.

"So, uh," Goren broke the silence while opening up a well used black leather organizer. He shuffled through a stack of uneven papers, pausing before he pulled out a self-addressed stamped envelope, "are we good then? Or do you want me to continue to keep my eye on her?"

"Do you think I need to?"

Goren shook his head no before handing the bill to his latest "paranoid" client.

Dr. Haber narrowed his eyes as though Goren were presenting Haber with a foreign object.

"What's this?"

Goren raised an eyebrow, gesturing yet again for Haber to take the envelope. It was the part of the job he detested most: the collection of payment.

"Can't you just email the invoice?" Haber bristled, "I don't want this laying around the house. This is simply so old school."

"I am old school," Goren grumbled, "and since you won't be requiring further services, there won't be any additional charges, uh, unless of course your payment is late."

Haber frowned, but took the envelope before limping off towards his BMW.

Goren deliberately stomped his feet and scowled as he headed in the opposite direction towards the closest underground. He felt a wave of indignation flare through his system. It never ceased to amaze him how some of his wealthiest clients were often the cheapest assholes on the planet. And this transaction seemed to highlight how his life had changed slowly, but surely over the years. The overcoat he wore sported a hole near the left front pocket, his shoes were scuffed and the soles worn thin. If Eames were here, she'd remind him that "comparisons were odious," but in the wake of dealing with Haber, Goren felt emasculated as he hunted around for loose change in his wallet so that he'd be able to add to his subway fare home.

But it was more than Dr. Haber's obvious disdain. Goren's head had been in a state since he'd read the article about Eames. Over the past weeks he'd fought back the urge to call her on more than one occasion.

_Fuck. _

He didn't even know if her work or personal cell number had changed. It had been that long. He could try, but something was stopping him.

And the results of not calling her equalled sleepless nights, late night drinking, not to mention using every ounce of self-control in his body not to run to the corner store to pick up a pack of cigarettes - even after he promised her he'd quit.

And he had.

But that was then.

And oh, the wretched amount of time he spent thinking about her. Only a few weeks back, in a recent issue of the Smithsonian, Goren read that researchers now believe that men think about sex at least twenty times a day, in comparison to the every seven seconds bullshit. Either way, in regards to Eames, he'd clearly beat the twenty times a day benchmark. How often? Ten minute intervals seemed to be more accurate. Not that he was obsessing, but he was.

But why now? Why had this turn of events hit him so hard?

He knew that it had something to do with the idea of seeing her move on _without him_ in her life. After all, they'd been together, doing what did so well together for over ten years.

And for fuck's sake, during that time he'd even been given a moment to do the thing that he should have done years ago. He should have told her how he felt about her. Should have asked her if she felt the same way about him.

But it was implied right?

It was through her actions that he knew how much she cared about him.

And he had reciprocated to the best of his ability: demonstrating to her again and again how much he loved her.

And didn't actions speak louder than words?

Goren groaned when his metro card affirmatively declared a negative value. He glanced at his watch, and when it confirmed that it was close enough to the lunch hour, Goren decided to ascend from the underground to catch a bite before his commute home. He hated using credit cards, and the few he had in his possession had low credit limits. He quickly decided to use an ATM in order to have some change for the ride back home.

Less than ten minutes passed and his mind drifted back to his partner Eames.

It was a memory he'd held on to all these years.

A memory of when he went to visit her at the end of her maternity leave.

Walking up to the door of her apartment and ringing her buzzer, he remembered feeling somewhat anxious, not to mention increasingly worried that she wasn't coming back to work. Or perhaps when she did, she wouldn't be the same - or that_ they_ wouldn't be the same. They'd worked so well together before the baby, but during this major life-changing event, what if Eames had changed? What if they couldn't find their stride?

After all, it was during Eames' maternity leave that he'd been given the time to really understand how much he cared about her, how much he relied on her, how well they worked together, and most importantly, how much he needed her._ Absence makes the heart grown fonder._ And just as all of these thoughts culminated in his head, Eames opened the door slowly unable to disguise her pleasant surprise.

"Bobby," Eames beamed brightly, her eyes smiling. In fact, her face was different than he'd remembered, a deeper hue, softer perhaps and rounder?

"Eames," he leaned in, presenting her with a half dozen white roses, "uh, these are white roses from . . ."

And before he could finish his sentence she drew him in close.

Somewhat startled, Goren returned her hug, bending at his knees and hunching down awkwardly to make up for their height difference.

And that was when her lips brushed and made contact, if only for a second, against the crook of his neck - just under his right ear.

"Thanks for coming by," she laughed, "I've actually missed you."

He was still taken aback by her warm embrace and albeit brief kiss, "uh, I-I'm glad you'll be back soon?"

"Yes," Eames confirmed, "but wait, you were saying something?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Those are really nice," she offered, gesturing to the flowers.

"Oh yes, uh," he paused, handing them to her, "t-they're white, which uh, can represent new beginnings."

She returned his gaze almost quizzically.

"New beginnings," he repeated smiling, "or uh, honor and reverence for the new mothe . . . u-uh, I'm sorry, the new aunt."

He saw the expression on her face fall imperceptibly. He jerked back, also unable to disguise the growing desire to kick himself for being so fucking insensitive.

The roses were the first flowers he'd ever brought her. In some of the earliest known traditions giving another white roses might symbolize true love. Of course, they also might represent feelings of love, friendship, respect and hope.

And despite the fact that he'd carefully chosen the roses to represent their new beginning together - it wasn't lost on him that white roses were also used to signify a farewell.

_"Thanks for coming by," she laughed, "I've actually missed you."_

As Goren heard Eames' voice echo amidst this vivid memory, he was drawn back to reality when he felt the cell phone in his left trouser pocket vibrate.

"Goren," he answered quietly, still very much caught up in his head.

"Robert?"

The female caller's voice was certainly not the voice he'd been expecting.

* * *

A.N. Thank you reviewers. I'll try to keep pace. Enjoy. There is still more to come . . .


	3. Chapter 3

_"Thanks for coming by," she laughed, "I've actually missed you."_

As Goren heard Eames' voice echo amidst this vivid memory, he was drawn back to reality when he felt the cell phone in his left trouser pocket vibrate.

"Goren," he answered quietly, still very much caught up in his head.

"Robert?"

The female caller's voice was certainly not the voice he'd been expecting.

* * *

"Yes?" Goren answered. He was still puzzled as he had not yet been able to place the voice on the other end of the connection.

"It's Paula," the caller continued, "Dr. Paula Gyson."

Goren startled. How could he possibly forget Dr. Gyson's voice?

"Doctor?"

"Sorry," Dr. Gyson paused, "I was a bit surprised you answered. I was expecting to go straight to messaging."

"I see."

"Look," Gyson started, "I went back through my patient files, and it's been over a year since your last visit. You stopped scheduling appointments so I nearly packed your file permanently away and . . ."

"You wanted closure?" Goren concluded. "Uh, it's okay, I-I've no plans to renew our sessions. In fact, uh, I'm not working for the NYPD anymore."

"They said as much when I first tried to contact your work number," Gyson confirmed softly.

Goren nodded thoughtfully. Although Gyson did not have the benefit of reading his body language, it's likely she heard him exhale sharply.

"Are you okay?"

Goren silenced a laugh, "I could never pull one past you."

He swore he could almost hear her smile back when she resumed speaking, "but you've tried."

"You must be relieved," he mused.

"I'm sorry?"

"Relieved," Goren repeated, "Relieved that I won't be coming back in to badger you."

"Detective?"

"Yes?"

"On the contrary, I'd like you to come in again."

"I can't."

"I think we have unfinished work," Gyson offered, "and I'm worried about how you are handling this new major life change."

Goren shook his head, "It's not possible. I-I no longer have an insurance plan."

"We'll figure something out."

And it was easy for him to sense that Gyson meant business. Of course he could refuse, and perhaps he still would. But for now he reassured her that he would show up during their old time slot at the end of the week.

* * *

"It's been over a year," Gyson smiled, gesturing for Goren to sit down.

Goren nodded a quick acknowledgement before walking over to an oversized leather armchair. He waited for Gyson to settle down in her chair before seating himself.

Gyson was sharp as a hawk. Goren knew that she noted his simple gesture - and for a millisecond he thought he saw the curve of a smile forming before her face was obscured by a curtain of long brown hair.

"Look." Goren started.

Gyson had barely settled comfortably in her armchair, her legs tucked gracefully beneath her.

"I can't . . ."

But before he could finish his sentence, her hand shot up in the air before he could finish his sentence.

"One rule detective."

Goren visibly squirmed, raking a hand through his greying curls before he felt composed enough to meet her eyes.

"No discussions that touch upon payment or any kind of business transaction during this session."

He nodded agreement, and in some ways was heartened by the idea, for as of late, business transactions had been a real drag.

"Tell me what's going on in your life right now."

"I, uh, I work independently. Spying and reporting on the daily lives of lovers, spouses, uh, you know, typical private investigation fare."

"For how long?"

"Last six months or so."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Goren fought the urge to laugh, "it pays the bills."

Gyson mirrored his intense gaze before she asked the big question at hand - a question Goren knew was coming all along.

"Why did you leave?"

"My career at Major Case? Uhhh, or are you referring to why I stopped coming to our sessions?"

Gyson smiled, "It's good to see that you are the same old Robert Goren I remember from a year ago. You certainly haven't lost your spirit."

Her response certainly caught his attention. Was she suggesting that he was still alive? And that there was at least one more run left in him now that he'd broken the fifty year mark?

"In fact I was referring to why you left you job with Major Case," Gyson leaned forward, resting her the weight of her chin on the palm of her left hand, "but you are more than welcome to address the issue of our lack of sessions."

Goren drew both of his hands together into his lap. He sat erect, his eyes lowered in reflection like a meditating Buddha. He remembered quite vividly the day he decided that he should leave Major Case.

And the reason it was memorable was due to the fact that there wasn't anything memorable about his decision at all.

In fact, he couldn't even point to one specific event that begged, "quit now!"

Rather, it seemed to be an accumulation of factors that sent him packing.

His moment of lucidity came into being on an unusually warm November afternoon:

With his sports jacket removed, and dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, Goren balanced the bulk of his weight on his haunches, leaning over the body of a slain forty-four year old man.

He'd never, ever been fazed by death, nor the gruesome nature of his job. The blood on this unfortunate vicim was still moist - more of a gel-like substance, thick and caked all over the gaping wound on the crown of the man's head. After the crime scene unit had snapped it's last photograph, Goren launched in, the smell of iron was so strong, his nostrils flared.

With the skill of many years of service under his belt, Goren gently supported the head with five white gloved fingers, his left index finger probed around the oozing cavity. As Goren tentatively worked around the shape of the skull, he quietly counted the soft depressions that indicated both primary and secondary damage. There were defensive wounds on the victim's hands, and bruises would undoubtably be found on the lower and upper arms - all of which indicated that the victim probably had enough time to see his attacker and would have had enough visual information to make an identification if the wounds had not proved to be fatal.

Goren saw his partner, Alex Eames, in his peripheral vision. She was busy interviewing one of several eye witnesses. And he knew full well, that after he'd had all the time he needed to review the body, it would be his turn to give Eames, his senior partner, his full professional report, i.e., his initial insight into this latest puzzle.

And just like clock-work, as soon as she had wrapped up her last interview, Alex Eames came over to his side. Silently, she squatted down, resting on all hands and knees so that they were both eye level. They briefly made eye contact. She blinked once and waited.

This is how it had been for nearly twelve years.

In her gloved right hand, she held a beautifully hand carved wooden staff. Blood adhered to the thicker end of the staff, and speckled the leather hand strap. The intricate design had been brutally splintered by the impact.

Goren felt a unique mixture of sorrow and rage building from his core.

The staff had been an incredible relic before it had been destroyed by this violent act. And he found this situation to be utterly obscene. Not the broken skull of the victim, mind you, but rather that the beautiful hand carved artwork that had been used as a mindless instrument of evil. Surely an antique of this nature could not be replicated, could not have protected itself - nor at this point, would it ever be repaired. Rather, the disfigured staff would live out its life in a sealed evidence box, deep in the bowels of 1PP.

And he remembered seeing a quizzical expression on his partner's face. He even thought he heard his name "Goren?" come from her mouth, but she sounded like she was in a tunnel. Then without so much as a warning, he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. Then everything went black.

When he woke up, he was suddenly enlightened. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was time to leave.

"I-I just knew it was time."

Gyson looked puzzled, "but it, I mean, the job seemed so vital to you. It doesn't make sense."

"I just left."

Gyson shook her head, "As a world class detective, would that answer be enough for you?"

"Maybe you're better than you paint yourself out to be, doctor," Goren offered snidely, trying to hide the growing irritation that was starting to mount in his gut, "perhaps you've successfully taught me how to work through my trust and anger issues so that I can finally focus on what is important."

"On the contrary, we barely touched upon those issues. You left before we had a chance to go deeper."

"And what makes you think that today's session is going to change that?"

"Because you reached out this time."

Goren was dumfounded, "what do you mean?"

"You called me last night, left a message on my machine," Paula spoke softly and deliberately, "you don't remember, do you?"

Goren's face turned from pale pink to ashen grey. "I don't uh – w-what did I, uh, say?"

"Well first you sort of apologized for disappearing off the face of the planet. Then you implored me for help. You wanted advice."

"Advice." Goren repeated quietly as he tried to piece it all together. Since he'd read the article about Eames in the paper, he knew that he'd had been drinking more than usual at night.

"Did I say what for?"

Gyson nodded, "You kept saying, 'It turns out she doesn't need me anymore.'"

* * *

A.N. Thank you for all your reviews! I feel very welcomed back indeed. I almost want to apologize for how bizarre and dark this particular tale is, but then again, I still don't know where I'm taking it. (I hope that is not too obvious) I'll try to hold on to my end of the bargain. Enjoy!


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